The Ghost's Lover
by Mllechristined
Summary: There are nights she still cries for Thomas. Set after the events of Crimson Peak, Edith still clings to the ghost of Thomas Sharpe. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

There are nights she still cries for Thomas. Alan holds her and waits, often stroking her hair and murmuring "shhh... it's alright...". He can't allow himself to wonder **why** she cries. Sometimes, he feels as though Edith is not even in the same room. Her eyes are distant and fixed, and her hand extends towards what he can only assume is the ghostly figure of Thomas Sharpe before her. The nights she cries for her now long-gone husband are her better nights. They are the easy nights.

Most nights, Edith wakes drenched in sweat, her hands clammy and gripping the sheets. Her whole body trembles and Alan would give anything to know what causes her such terror and to be able to assuage those fears. Instead, he can only wait for it to pass. When these nightmares comes, she cannot be held, cannot be soothed by his voice. He can only wait for it to pass. They have been married a year and still she cannot share a bed with him. His bed is beside hers, close enough that he can be with her in an instant. He cannot remember the last time he slept through the night. Every night, while he tries and tries to fall asleep, he is waiting. Waiting to see what sort of night she'll have. Waiting to see if he can help her or only sit idly by, powerless. As a doctor, Alan is accustomed to diagnosing a problem and fixing it. He is a healer, but Edith cannot be healed. It pains him. Since they were children, Alan had fancied her. He had always tended to all her aches and pains. He bitterly regretted ever leaving her side. London had been an adventure. It had taught him so much about the world and about himself. He had received an excellent education that had propelled his career in America. But had also forced him to sacrifice Edith. He'd made no promises when he'd left and not asked any of her. He had thought it didn't need to be said. He'd been certain the feelings were mutual. Coming back from London to a distance between them felt like a swift punch to the gut that rushed all the air from his chest. She'd changed. She'd grown up. He hadn't. And, if anything, he loved her even more. Alan felt guilty for leaving her behind to pursue his studies. In an effort to allow her some happiness of her own, he had watched her fall for the Baronet.

There was something wrong with the Sharpes. Alan had known immediately, as had Mr. Cushing, but he had convinced himself it was merely jealousy painting the Sharpes in such a light. Edith was enamoured and he'd always trusted her before. He cursed himself for not trying harder. He had attended the wedding. As was the custom, the priest had asked if anyone objected. Alan still felt he should have spoken up and stopped the wedding. He never should have let her go to England. The events that transpired were his fault and his alone.

His guilt keeps him up at night even while she sleeps, digging and clawing, eating him up. Edith had suffered because of horrors described in her novel still sent a chill through his entire body. He desperately hoped she had taken some artistic liberties when describing what had taken place at Allerdale Hall. But he'd done enough research into the Sharpe family history to know it was likely all true. Lucille would have killed them both if not for Thomas. He still wasn't quite sure what to think about the Baronet. In the end, Alan supposed, Thomas really did love Edith, but by then it was too late. Lucille had ruined any chance the two might have had at a happy marriage. Alan and Edith were married. He liked to think happily so. Perhaps they would be if he could have given her children, but Alan was quite certain he was impotent. It had pained him to give her the news. Edith had to content herself with Alan's companionship and no one else. He encouraged her to visit with friends but she preferred to be alone, writing. She was writing a new novel and refused to allow him to read it, no matter how he asked.

"It's too soon, I'm only on the first draft." she'd shyly protest. Alan knew better. Too many times, he'd glanced over her shoulder to catch the name "Thomas" on the page. He wondered what the subject of the piece was, that she should feel the need to hide it from him. She'd already written of their marriage. Perhaps it was a piece of fiction. Was she writing of the life she wished they'd led? He forced himself to think of other things. He hated to dwell on the matter of Edith's heart and to whom it truly belonged.


	2. Chapter 2

Edith was, in fact, writing a piece of fiction. But only writing it in the sense that she was putting the words down to paper. The words were not hers. Had they ever truly been? Her first novel had been of the events that had happened to her, yet the Sharpes had dictated her life. If not for them, the novel would not be. Now Thomas wrote through her. She saw him frequently. No one else seemed to. Lucille had caught a glimpse of her brother's ghost, before Edith had- A shudder ran through Edith. She didn't like to think of her final days at Allerdale Hall. Her heart was tormented by the mystery of Thomas's love. She wondered if he had ever loved her or if it had been a ruse from start to finish. Her heart ached at the thought. She had loved him. She had given up everything for him, had put all her trust in him, and him alone. She knew that she should be happy now, with Alan. She ought to content herself and put Thomas out of her mind. Here was a man who truly loved her and yet she was anything but happy. How could she be? Thomas was always lurking. Sometimes in plain sight, other times she only caught a passing glance but she still knew he was still present. It seemed he was tethered to her, and had followed her back to America.

On the days that he appeared to her, she would sit and listen to him talk for hours, writing down his every word. She rarely ever noticed when her husband would enter the room and watch her. Sometimes, she'd catch a whisper to one of his friends, usually something along the lines of "my wife is not well." It never bothered her. She had stopped caring what society thought of her long ago. She did not attend balls or go to tea. She kept no company and _that_ she was content with. Thomas was all the company she desired.

At night, she was visited by another specter, that was always accompanied by an anguished wail she recalled all too vividly. It was the wretched howl that belonged to Lucille, the outcry that had confirmed Thomas's death. Lucille's ghost remained, to Edith's knowledge, at Allerdale. But she still came to Edith in dreams, forcing Edith to relive her final hours in the decrepit, decaying mansion. Edith had had no choice. One of them was going to die that night. Still, Lucille's death tormented her.

One day, Edith looked up from her novel and, upon receiving a reassuring nod from Thomas, looked to the worried face of her husband.

"I want to return to England. To Allerdale."

She'd been afraid to bring it up to him but she needed to see what had become of the house. She needed to see what had become of _them_.

Alan's eyes widened and he shook his head. "No. No, Edith. We are safe. We are happy here. Why… _Why_ would you want to go back?" He was almost at a loss for words. After all the horrors they had _both_ endured, she wanted to leave their safe, quiet existence in America and return to a desolate, horrible house that held nothing but heartbreak and loss. He didn't understand. He couldn't.

Edith took a pause before nodding. "I need… closure." She closed her eyes, unable to look at him as tears rose to her eyes. She regretted her decision to ask him, his pain written across his face. But it was too late, she was past the point of no return. "I never got a chance to say goodbye. After Lucille… died… we left immediately."

"What is there to say goodbye to?" He knelt beside her chair, taking her hand. She opened her eyes again but they were distant, looking past him.

"Memories," she murmured.

His eyes were fixed on her face and his stomach felt as though it had turned to stone, but he gave her a short nod. "I will make the arrangements. It is a long trip, it will take some time." He hoped to convince her not to go before they were done.

However, Edith wouldn't let it go. No matter how he begged and pleaded, her heart was fixed and the course was set.


	3. Chapter 3

There was not much left of Allerdale Hall. With no inhabitants, it had fallen into even worse disrepair then when she'd left it. Local thieves had absconded with most of the furniture and anything of value. The only thing that still sat in the Great Room was the piano, Lady Sharpe still affixed to the wall and glaring down at it. The piano was, no doubt, out of tune by now, a thick layer of dust covering the keys. The moment Edith entered the ruined house a chill passed through her entire being. Memories flooded her mind and she had to close her eyes for a moment, trying to make sense of it all. Her knuckles whitened as she clenched her fists and her nails dug into her skin but she barely noticed. The wind howled through broken windows and cracked walls, and Edith could have sworn she heard it whisper her name. A shiver ran up her spine. She had insisted on coming alone, leaving Allan in their rented room. But, staring at the peeling wallpaper and clay-soaked floors, Edith wished for some company. The house was undeniably still haunted, teeming with the presence of so many tortured souls. Edith swore the house had acquired even more since she'd left. Now that she knew it was more than her imagination, Edith felt them more strongly than ever. She ached for every restless spirit trapped in the house. Edith slowly walked the halls, the hem of her skirt turning red as it trailed in the clay. There was one spirit she didn't feel following her as she explored the house. Thomas remained at her side, vigilant and silent as always. But where was Lucille? Part of Edith was relieved, they hadn't exactly parted on good terms, but the other part wondered what had become of Thomas's tortured sister. Lucille had seemed so attached to both Thomas and the house, Edith expected to see or feel her. But she wasn't there. Edith entered the attic, or at least, what was left of it. Surprisingly, Thomas's workshop was fairly intact, but the way the house creaked and groaned, she almost expected it to collapse beneath her. The door to the workshop slammed shut behind her and Edith whirled around, letting out a small yelp. There was no one there. She steadied her nerves and slowly opened the door, perring out. Still no one visible, but a new presence made itself known to her, and Edith was filled with dread to her core. Lucille was here.

Edith's feet felt rooted to the floor and she struggled to take a breath. She waited for Lucille to appear, to scream, attack, to do anything. A few notes of a lullaby Edith has heard her play drifted up from the floor. But, just as quickly as her presence had come, it vanished and the music stopped. Edith felt a release. She wasted no time in returning downstairs. Thunder rumbled and the house moaned and swayed. The house sank quickly and suddenly. Red, thick clay seeped up through the floor and Edith scrambled backwards up the stairs. When the house stopped moving, the house was considerably deeper into the clay. Her shoes squished and stuck with every step to the front door. They wouldn't budge. Edith was trapped in Allerdale Hall.

Edith fought the urge to panic, taking a moment to compose herself. Surely Allan would come looking for her after a while. He would rescue her. She just had to wait.

Edith piled debris into the fireplace and managed to get a small fire going. She remembered, all too well, how chilly the house could get at night. As Edith lit the fireplace, she could have sworn she heard the patter or small footsteps, but, when she looked, there was no one there, human or spirit. She chalked it up to fear and her imagination. Edith hiked up her skirt, the hem of which was irreversibly dyed red, and made her way to the kitchen. She found bread and cheese, which gave her pause. They had abandoned the house over a year ago and there were no other signs of an inhabitant. She now doubted whether or not the footsteps had been real. She steeled her nerves and went in search of the source. Trudging through the clay was becoming harder and harder. Edith ditched her heels, walking barefoot. This was much easier and she resigned herself to a long bath that evening. The first floor yielded no results. She moved up a floor and, coming close to the bedroom, heard the footsteps once more, behind her. She whirled around and came face to face with a small, dirty little girl. Edith bit back a surprised shriek, swallowing it. "Who are you?"

"Emilie."

Edith looked her over. The child was skin and bones, and her clothes were barely more than rags. "Are you alone?"

The girl nodded. "You shouldn't be here. You made her angry. You have to leave."

Edith's blood ran cold. "Who's angry? Do you know her name?"

"Lucille."


End file.
